by Rick Yancey
“You cannot keep it long,” he said. “We know who you are.”
Then the tall monk did something that took me totally by surprise: He stepped out of the way.
Behind me, one of the other monks cried out, and the head monk raised his hand. His hand was very pale and his fingers long and delicate, almost like a woman’s.
“No,” he said quietly. Then he said to me, “We will meet again.”
We hit the stairs, and the large door slammed shut behind us, echoing like a gunshot.
8
I took the steps two at a time, dragging Uncle Farrell behind me. I went down two flights, then paused at the landing, listening, but heard nothing.
“Twenty-seven floors to go,” I said. “Can you make it?”
“The freight elevator—we can take that,” Uncle Farrell gasped.
I pushed open the stairway door and pushed Uncle Farrell too, down the dark hall to the freight elevator. He fumbled with his keys, fussing at me the whole time. What was the matter with me, taking on a bunch of saber-shaking monks? He said I had screwed up everything, particularly his life. I was thinking about the duffel bag I had left in the hall outside Samson’s office. I think I read somewhere that the cops can pull fingerprints off fabric.
Uncle Farrell was right: I had screwed up everything, his life and mine too.
He finally found the right key and when the elevator doors opened, we fell inside and he hit the lobby button. We leaned against the back wall of the elevator and tried to catch our breaths.
The doors opened onto the lobby. “Mr. Myers was right,” I said. “This isn’t your ordinary sword.”
We stepped into the lobby.
“Where’d you learn to swing a sword like that?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, which was a good thing, because I didn’t have one.
“You broke the code?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well, you’re just a young man of many hidden talents, aren’t you? What was the code?”
“Two-five-three-seven-three-three.”
“What’s that?”
“That,” I said, “is my name.”
He stared at me. I said, “It also could be ‘Alepee,’ but that doesn’t make much sense.”
“Neither do you. Somebody ratted us out, Alfred.”
“Or maybe the desktop was wired,” I said.
“Right. Alarm goes off in the monastery and the monks break from vespers and scramble for battle.”
The lobby was eerily quiet, except for the splashing of the water in the fountain.
“What happened to the cops?” I asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he growled. “It’s true. Never one around when you need one.” He told me the third monk was waiting for him in the lobby when he stepped out of the elevator. He put a sword to his throat and took Uncle Farrell straight back to the penthouse.
Uncle Farrell stopped at his desk and hit the switches. The monitors flickered back to life. The hall on the top floor was empty. I looked at the wall behind the desk where the red indicator lights showed the location of all six elevators. The express elevator was still on the top floor.
“They took the stairs,” I said.
“What do we do now?” Uncle Farrell asked. It was as if holding the sword put me in charge.
I thought about it. “Call the cops.”
“Huh?”
“Maybe the monks or whoever they are intercepted the automatic emergency call. Call the cops, Uncle Farrell.”
“And tell them what?”
“Tell them you’ve got three guys, maybe more, running around with swords.” I reached around him again and hit a button that was labeled “Alarm.” A red light began to flash on the panel.
“Okay, and while I’m waiting for the cops I think I’ll whip up a snack for me and the monks when they get here. What are you talking about, Alfred?”
“They don’t want you,” I said, meaning the brown-robed monk men. “They want the sword, and the sword isn’t going to be here.”
“You’re leaving? Al, you can’t leave.”
“Sure I can, Uncle Farrell. Give me your car keys.”
“You can’t have my car!”
“You’ll get fired if you leave.”
“Alfred, I’m about to be a millionaire—do you really think I care if they fire me? We’re getting outta here!”
We took the access stairs to the underground lot. Uncle Farrell drove while I sat in the backseat, the sword across my lap. Three cop cars roared past us in the direction of Samson Towers, sirens wailing.
Once we were safely away, my own panic and fear started to set in. I broke out in a cold sweat and fought back tears. “Okay, Uncle Farrell, you’ve got to tell me what’s really going on here.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’d those guys come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’d they get into the building?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is my name the code to the secret chamber?”
“I don’t know.”
Apparently, there wasn’t much Uncle Farrell did know. That made it even worse, the thought that I was the real brains of the operation.
He drove straight to our apartment. He doubled-parked on the street. It was almost three a.m.; we didn’t see anybody going up the stairs. Uncle Farrell went in first so I could check out the hall one last time.
Then I stepped into the dark room and asked, “Uncle Farrell, is everything all right?”
I flipped the switch and heard Uncle Farrell gasp. He was standing about ten feet away, by the sofa. Behind him stood Arthur Myers, his forearm across Uncle Farrell’s throat.
“Of course it’s all right, Mr. Kropp,” Arthur Myers said.
9
“Alfred,” Uncle Farrell wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”
“He’s having some difficulty breathing, Mr. Kropp,” Mr. Myers said. “Drop the sword and step away, please.”
I dropped the sword. It made a dull clang as it hit the floor.
“Very good. Step away, toward the window, please.”
I sidestepped to the window, keeping my eye on them.
Mr. Myers let Uncle Farrell go, stepped around him as he fell back onto the sofa, and strode quickly to the sword. He picked it up and turned it from side to side.
“All right,” I said. “You have the sword. You can go now, Mr. Myers.”
“Wait a minute,” Uncle Farrell said, rubbing his throat. “I want some answers first. What in the name of Jehoshaphat is this sword and who were those guys in the funny robes trying to take it?”
“They weren’t trying to take it,” Mr. Myers said. He was staring at the sword with a weird expression. “They were trying to stop you from taking it.” He leveled his eyes at me and something dark passed over his face.
“You have done me a great service, Mr. Kropp,” he said to Uncle Farrell, but he was still staring at me. “So I will pay you in kind.”
“That’s good,” Uncle Farrell said. “We had a deal, and I almost got killed getting it.”
“Oh, yes. They certainly would have killed you for the sword. They are sworn to protect it at all costs. They are ruthless men of iron will, Mr. Kropp. Ruthlessness has gotten a bad reputation over the years, but there is honor in ruthlessness, a purity to it, would you not agree?”
Mr. Myers had the sword now, but he was getting at something important, something he wanted us to understand before he left.
“They are my enemies, in a way, since we work at cross-purposes, but I admire them,” Mr. Myers said. “They have much to teach us about the importance of the will.” He turned to me. He was smiling. It was the kind of smile that could give smiling a bad name.
“You see, Alfred Kropp, the will of most men is weak. It buckles at the slightest challenge. It crumbles at the first sign of resistance. It does not listen to the dictates of necessity. Are you following me, Mr. Kropp?”
&nbs
p; “Not really,” I said. “You’ve got the sword, Mr. Myers. Can we have the money now?”
“I’m going to give you something much more valuable than money, Mr. Kropp. I am going to give you an important life lesson. I am going to teach you what happens when your will conflicts with one that is stronger.”
In two strides, he was in front of the sofa, and I could do nothing but watch as he drove the sword into my uncle’s chest, burying the blade into the cushions behind him. Uncle Farrell’s eyes slid in my direction and he whispered, “Alfred,” before he died.
10
Myers came toward me. I froze, waiting for him to slam the sword into my chest, but instead he put a finger to my lips and whispered, “Shhhhh.” Then he left without another word.
I realized right away that this was the time to get some adults involved and, since Uncle Farrell was the only adult in the room and he happened to be dead, I dialed 911.
The police came. First a couple in uniforms, then the detectives, who wore rumpled jackets and crooked ties. A photographer came to snap pictures of my dead uncle, and a lady from the coroner’s office. Then another lady showed up who said she was a counselor from social services. I told her instead of some counseling I could really use a glass of water. One of the policemen brought me a glass of water.
I told them everything, from the night Mr. Myers gave Uncle Farrell the down payment to get the sword, to my fight with the brown-robed sword-fighting monks, to Mr. Myers stabbing Uncle Farrell and how he promised to kill me too if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.
Nobody acted like they believed me.
Then they put Uncle Farrell in a black plastic bag and carried him into the hall, where all the neighbors were standing around, gawking. One of the detectives asked me to describe Mr. Myers, so I did. I told him about the long hair drawn back in a ponytail and the shimmering suit.
One of the detectives took a call on his cell phone and he talked in a whisper for a long time. I don’t know what time it was, but it must have been close to dawn when the door opened and a big man with a lion’s mane of golden blond hair stepped into the room, followed by two tall men in dark suits.
“Are you done?” one of the men in dark suits asked a detective.
“We’re done.”
They left us alone, and the two guys in dark suits took positions on either side of the door and stared at nothing.
The big man with the golden hair sat beside me by the window. The rising sun shone through the window, glinting off the ends of his hair. He put a hand on my forearm.
“Do you know who I am?” His voice was kind and very deep.
“Are you Bernard Samson? You look like the guy in the picture.”
“Yes, I am Bernard Samson, Alfred,” he said softly.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
He smiled. “What I know might surprise you.”
“Are you going to explain what’s going on, Mr. Samson?”
“Yes, Alfred, I am,” he said in that same soft voice. “Would you like anything?”
“One of the cops gave me a glass of water,” I said. “So that’s taken care of. I could use some sleep. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. Plus I’m hungry, but I’m afraid if I eat anything, I’ll puke. Mostly what I’d like, though, is some answers.”
He smiled. “Ask.”
“Who are those guys?” I asked, nodding toward the men by the door.
“They are agents.”
“Agents of what?”
“Agents of an organization that you have never heard of, that very few people have heard of, actually. They belong to an agency specifically trained to deal with emergencies such as this one.”
“This is an emergency?”
“More of a crisis. You see, Alfred, what has been lost is very important.”
“You mean the sword?”
He nodded.
“It doesn’t really belong to Arthur Myers, does it?” I asked.
“No.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I tried to tell Uncle Farrell that, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Who is Arthur Myers?” I asked.
“He is many things.”
“You’re answering my questions, but you’re not giving me any answers, Mr. Samson. I thought you were in Europe.”
“My flight just got in.”
He patted my arm again and stood up. He began to pace around the living room, his hands behind his back.
“Who is Arthur Myers?” he said. “I had never heard that name before today. But I know the man. He has gone by many names and many guises in many lands. Bartholomew in England. Vandenburg in Germany. Lutsky in Russia. Who knows what his true name is? To my friends here”—he nodded toward the men by the door—“he is known by his code name, Dragon. The name he used when I first met him, though, years ago, in Paris, was Mogart, so to me he has been and always will be Mogart.”
Mr. Samson gave a little shake of his enormous head and laughed bitterly.
“Mogart! What can I tell you about Mogart? He is many things, and yet nothing. Mercenary, provocateur, assassin, a destroyer and murderer, but I don’t need to tell you that. A lover of darkness. Yes! Of darkness. For if a man may be defined by what he does, you may think of him as simply an agent, Alfred. An agent of darkness.”
His cell phone rang. I jumped a little. I don’t know if it was my jumping or the ringing of the phone, but one of the men by the door jammed his hand inside his coat pocket, then slowly took it out again when Mr. Samson began to talk.
“Yes. . . . When? . . . Are you certain?” He listened for a long time. In the early-morning light his face looked old, with deep shadow-filled creases. I wondered how old Bernard Samson was. I wondered if he was telling me the truth. I wondered what exactly he was telling me.
“Very well,” he said into the phone, and flipped it closed. He sat next to me again.
“I’m afraid I haven’t much time, Alfred. Things are moving very quickly and time is our enemy now. We’ve tapped every resource at our disposal, but he has had time, too much time, to slip through the net. The rest of your questions, quickly.”
“I just want to know what’s so special about this sword; why three guys dressed like monks with black swords tried to kill me for it; and most of all I want to know why my uncle is dead.”
“Your uncle died to send a message, Alfred. To me. To you. To those men you met last night. He died as a warning and a promise that more will die should we oppose Mogart. I’m afraid we can fully trust that message, Alfred: More people will die before this is over.”
“Before what is over? Why don’t you just talk plain to me, Mr. Samson? I’m really tired and I feel really bad. I felt bad from the first about this deal and I tried to talk Uncle Farrell out of it, but he wouldn’t listen, and now I feel really bad.”
He patted my hand, looked at his watch, and then said, “The sword you took from my office, did you notice anything unusual about it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You fought those men with it. Have you ever fought with a sword, Alfred?”
“Not a real one. A play one, when I was a kid.”
“Yet, despite your total lack of expertise, you were able to best three very accomplished swordsmen, were you not?”
“Yes. Who were they? They don’t work for Mr. Myers— or Mogart, or whatever his name is, do they?”
“No.”
“So they work for you.”
“They work for no man, Alfred. They are part of an ancient and secret order, bound by a sacred vow to keep safe the sword until its master comes to claim it. Yes, they should have killed you for refusing to give it to them, but they are not murderers or thieves.”
“No, I guess that would be Mr. Mogart and me.”
“They are knights, Alfred, or at least that’s what we would call them, if there were such things in this dark age.”
“Mr. Samson, are you ever going to tell
me what this is all about? I thought you had to go.” I felt like I was shrinking to the size of a pencil lead, which wasn’t a very comfortable feeling for someone my size.
“Long ago, Alfred,” Mr. Samson said. “Long ago there was a man who united the greatest kingdom the world had ever known. This kingdom was not great in lands or armies, but great in the vision it gave humankind, that justice, honor, and truth were within our grasp, not in some world to come, but here, in the world of mortal men. That king departed, but his vision remained. We are the guardians of that vision, for what we guard is the last physical embodiment of it.”
“You mean the sword?”
“The sword is in this world, Alfred, but it is not of this world. Forged before the foundations of the earth, not by mortal hands, it is the True Sword, Alfred, the Sword of Kings. In another time it was known as Caliburn. You may know it by its other name, the sword Excalibur.”
“You’re talking about King Arthur, right?”
“Yes, King Arthur.”
“That’s just a legend, a story, Mr. Samson.”
“I don’t have the time to convince you of anything, Alfred. You held it tonight. In your inexperienced hands, the Sword bested three of the finest swordsmen in the world. Yet that is only a fraction of its power. The Sword of Kings contains the power of heaven itself, Alfred, the power to create as well as to destroy. All the mortal arts of weaponry are powerless against it, but more than this, the will of ordinary men cannot withstand its might.”
I thought of the tall monk stepping aside to let me and Uncle Farrell pass, as I held the Sword, telling him to move. The will of ordinary men cannot withstand its might.
Mr. Samson’s eyes were shining with a faraway look, as if he was seeing things I could not see, great battles and men in gleaming armor on horseback, thundering across rolling fields.
“You asked who those men in the Towers were. Only twelve of us are left now, but they—and I—are the descendents of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. The Sword has been in our care for centuries and, as far as I know, this is the first time we have failed to keep it from the hands of evil men.”
